Dreams Never Forgotten
by QueenRoyallt
Summary: Two-shot based off Dramione Headcannon Tumblr #14. "The grandfather clock struck midnight, and her doorbell still hadn't rang."


When she woke up that morning, she knew what the day would bring.

It was the same every year.

It had been for the past seventy years, and it would continue on.

She pulled herself out of bed, glancing at the untouched side where her husband used to sleep. But he was long gone now, dead after a Killing Curse had been thrown at him in a nasty Auror case.

She had made him promise never to get hurt, or leave her again, and he did. But they were together for many years, so she learned to move on.

The floors, the older, creaky floors, lurched under her light footsteps. She had never been a big girl; everyone had always underestimated her because of her thin physique. She slowly made her way out of the bedroom, tying the ends of her robe as she made her way towards the stairs. As she slowly stepped down them - she was much older now than when they had first bought the house, so she had to move slowly - she grasped the rail tightly for support. She never knew when her legs were going to give out on her, and they had been quite shaky lately.

There were pictures lining the wall in a diagonal shape, descending - or ascending, depending on your perception - with the stairs. They were moving and stationary, showcasing the melding of two completely different cultures all together. Pictures of friends and family and children and grandchildren and cousins and aunts and uncles and graduations and school trips and ceremonies and speeches…

They had lived full, enchanting lives.

She reached the bottom floor and meandered into the kitchen, the small, grey cat her daughter had given to her for Christmas greeting her at the kitchen entryway, eyes begging for breakfast. After charming the cat food scoop to fill the dish, she made herself some tea and sat at the kitchen table.

And she waited.

She knew it was coming, but it was at a different time every year. Conveniently, it had always been when her children were either asleep or away, or her husband wasn't home. She never invited him inside, but she always held the door open and listened to his pleas, his kind words, and then shook her head and shut the door in his face. She would always watch him walk down the steps of her front porch and into the middle of the road through her living room window, and every time he would stare right into her eyes as he would apparate away.

The whole day, she waited. She never moved, she never spoke. The telephone rang, and she didn't even bother to go answer it. She waited, hoping the doorbell would ring. She waited, expecting her best friend to come barrelling down the door - even though he was well into his eighties - asking why she hadn't picked up the phone. She waited, and when she thought she was done waiting, she waited some more.

The grandfather clock chimed midnight, and her doorbell still hadn't rang.

She knew something was wrong from the moment she had woken up. The feeling in the air wasn't right; the weather had been dreary all day, grey clouds layering themselves across what should've been a bright blue sky. She had heard the wind howling furiously from inside her kitchen; she had seen the branches of the trees billowing recklessly as it had swept through them.

She knew she would never see him again.

Sighing, she stood up, walking over to the corded house phone her husband and children had long begged her to get rid of, and dialed the only number she could think of.

"St. Mungo's Hospital." The nurse on the other end sounded like she had been enduring a long shift, sighing into the phone like it was the most relaxing part of her day. "This is Melanie, how may I help you?"

"Hi, Melanie, I'm wondering if you can inquire about a possible patient?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but we don't give out information unless you can provide us with your name, the patient's name, and the patient's possible code as given to you by one of the emergency contacts," Melanie's voice became mechanic, every word pronounced slowly, as though she really had no idea who she was speaking to.

She sighed. "This is Hermione Granger. I'm inquiring as to whether or not Draco Malfoy has been admitted recently."

The other end of the line suddenly became quiet. Then, "Actually, Ms. Granger, Mr. Malfoy was sent back to his home for home hospice."

Hermione didn't expect to breathe in as sharply as she did. It wasn't as though she hadn't expected it; the man was a few months older than she was. "Thank you, Melanie."

"Have a great day, ma'am." _Click_.

Pushing herself off the wall, Hermione trudged over to her fireplace, where she grabbed a hold of the grey, silky powder sitting atop her mantle, and tossed it into the large, brick fireplace. She murmured the place she wanted to go and stepped into the green flames, feeling the twist in the pit of her stomach as she was hurdled from fireplace to fireplace in the network towards her destination. Ever since her sixtieth birthday, apparating had caused her to splinch herself, and she vowed - after splinching her nose and her left arm off in the same trip - that she would never apparate again. And, in the past twenty years, Hermione had only apparated once, and that was when her first great-grandchild had been born.

Malfoy Manor was every bit as dreary as she remembered. There was once a time it had been a lively place, one where after the War it had been named the "Most Changed Homefront since the War" in one of _Witch Weekly's_ issues, where the manor and its lady - the stoically beautiful Astoria Greengrass - were featured on the cover. The inside had been bright and lively, featuring more modernized renovations that made the home look more like a place one would find in modern Muggle London than anywhere else.

But, it definitely reminded her of a time long before this now.

Sliding her feet on the hardwood floor, trying not to make ny noise, she followed the sounds of the wheezed coughs and the angry male grunts. She heard the squeaks of a house elf - whom she desperately hoped was employed rather than enslaved - and could finally see the faint light of a fire glowing at the end of a hallway. The door was cracked open, and Hermione could barely make out a skinny but still smooth porcelain hand pushing away the stubby, green hand of a house elf's.

"No, Josephine, I don't want it." The voice was gravelly, nothing like the smooth one she was used to.

"But, Master, 'iz to help you get better," the elf insisted, pushing her hand forward again.

"No." Though he finished his word with a coughing spasm that lasted at least a minute, his voice somehow still maintained its force.

"But -"

Hermione pushed the door open, pulling enough strength into herself to walk in as regally as possible, like she belonged there. "I think that's enough, Josephine. I'll take it from here. Why don't you go get yourself a late night snack and you can return to give Master his dosage in the morning?" Suddenly, she felt young again, standing up straighter to peer down at the small elf, who was dressed in a pair of altered black slacks and a minimized hunter green button down.

The elf stared, wide-eyed, at Hermione, her hand shaking. Hermione took the spoon and the medicine bottle from the small elf and pushed her softly out the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Turning around, she finally took the time to assess them man sitting in the bed before her.

She didn't pay much attention to how lavish the room was; he was a Malfoy, of course his bedroom was over the top. But what she noticed the most was how, despite his age, the only thing that proved he was ill was the lack of even more color in his skin and the soft wrinkles in his face. His eyes, which danced with curiosity and something else - anger? - moved away from hers quickly. Hermione walked over to the edge of the bed and sat down on it.

"Just take the medicine, Malfoy."

He didn't say anything, just looked down at the liquid on the spoon and away from her.

"Malfoy."

 _Blink_.

"Draco."

That got his attention. He looked towards her then, eyes narrowing. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but was suddenly overtaken with a coughing fit, bits of blood landing onto the side of his hand that he had placed in front of his mouth. Hermione quickly grabbed the water from his bedside table and a handkerchief, waiting until it subsided to press the cup to his lips and dab at his mouth. He glared at her again, sighing simultaneously.

"Please take this."

Continuing his glaring, he snached the spoon from her hand and gulped down the liquid, his face turning sour. He picked up the water glass from its spot between his legs on the bed and chased his medicine with the rest of the water. Hermione murmured a simple spell and filled the water cup again, setting everything back onto the bedside table.

They then commenced their staring contest.

"Why are you here?" he rasped, trying to clear his throat.

"You didn't come today."

"Why, were you looking forward to seeing me, Granger?" She could hear his desperate attempt to sound normal, but it wasn't working.

"Well, you have shown up on my doorstep for the past seventy years."

He nodded, looking over towards the drawer handle on his bedside table. "I didn't want you to see me like this."

"Like I ever actually wanted to see you anyways." She tried to keep the snark in her voice, but all that was there was humor.

"I know," he murmured softly, "the seventy door shuttings proved that."

She sighed then, leaning forward to hold his hand. "Draco, we both know -"

"That if we could do everything all over again, I wouldn't have familial support, and the only thing I've ever wanted in my life was my family's approval, I know," he hissed, moving his hand away.

"We both know that things would have turned out a lot differently," she finished, looking at him. She could see the tears welling in his eyes, and she dabbed at her own. "I mean, really, Malfoy, would you have wanted to reach this age and wake up to this everyday?"

"Yes," he responded immediately, eyes boring into hers.

"How long?" she felt herself asking, like the breath was being sucked out of her.

"A few days," was his reply after what seemed like minutes.

They sat there in silence, finding new objects to fix their eyes on. "I knew you were being honest," she said suddenly, looking at him again. "From the moment you first knocked on my door, I knew."

"And you never did it."

She swallowed. "I wanted to."

"But you couldn't leave your precious Weasley. I know, Hermione, I know." His voice was venom, bleeding and leaking into her name like she repulsed him.

"I had children after a while, Malfoy. I couldn't just leave them."

"You could've had them again," he muttered, looking down at their hands again: so close but still so far.

"Our lives happened like this for a reason, Malfoy. Just accept it," Hermione implored, begging him slightly.

"I refuse to accept that you don't at least care."

"Of course I care, that's why I'm here right now!"

He sighed, fisting the blankets of his bed. "Tell me the truth. Did you ever really think about the possibility of starting over with me?"

She stared him down this time. "I don't understand why you always wanted to go back. I would've been perfectly content moving to the country with you after Ron died and Rose and Hugo were married and out of the house. We didn't need to turn back time."

"But then we could have -"

"No, Draco. I never went with you because you didn't seem to understand that I was ever interested in rewriting the past. I wanted to move forward." She stood up then, moving towards the fireplace.

He called out to her. "I just wanted to fix everything I had done wrong and prove that I could actually be something. Because I've always been a failure." He chuckled suddenly, coughing through it. "I even failed at dying. I was supposed to die yesterday, but I slept right through the night with no issues. Maybe tonight will be different."

Grabbing the grey powder, Hermione stepped closer to the fireplace. "I better see you at my door next year, Draco." They looked at each other deeply for a moment, before she tossed the powder into the hearth, calling out her address and twisting away into the green flames.

He didn't come the year after that.

But she was no longer there to answer the door, anyways.


End file.
